Reruns
by DaBananaLord
Summary: Eject. Before it's too late.
1. Release

**I do not claim ownership of the characters or setting used in this story. This is a story that is being written purely for fun.**

**16:39  
December 28th, 1991**

He sat alone, in his quiet gray box.

_Do you see what you've gotten into? Nothing you've done has mattered. It's ending, and this is all you've accomplished._

Ending. Of course it was. What was next? Oblivion? He knew he was far too gone to hope for anything near redemption.

He glanced over at the book on his table. The golden cross was clearly visible on the burgundy cover.

_You know it's too late for that._

Forgiveness was simply too far away. Wherever he was going, there would be no absolution.

… _Don't worry. Leaving this world isn't as scary as it sounds._

No time. He used up all of his chances on false leads and lost hope.

Radiant light. A flash. Nothingness.

STOP

REW

PLAY

**PILOT**

**1st Scene - Release**

**13:25  
June 20th, 1990**

He watched as the rat man ran.

It was a luminescent tango, one where a single misstep meant death in the form of bright pink rat brain going _splat_ against the cement floor as the bull man rams their foreheads together.

Just like that. The rat shouldn't have backed up into a corner.

REW

The rat paces along the outside of the basketball court, but the bull just redirects himself with no hesitation. A twitch, that's it, and suddenly the rat can't run fast enough to avoid the giant hands that capture his shoulders and wipe away his chances.

REW

The rat's a nimble one. He _barely_ skims past the bull, who charges headfirst into the wall.

The bull charges again, but the pattern's been established now. The rat pulls off a second dodge.

A pipe flies into the court. The rat sees it, and immediately snatches it up. The bull charges once more, but this time the rat stands his ground. One could almost feel his satisfaction at hearing the bull's head go _crack_ when the pipe meets it.

The battle's done. The observers, all clad in bright orange jumpsuits, quickly storm the western wing as an alarm begins to blare. Deep red pulses throughout the halls, soaking everything in an unforgettable crimson.

Time to move. The rooster follows the rat, pausing only to slip a sharpened piece of metal out from within his jumpsuit. A familiar beat pulsates within him as he grasps the improvised weapon.

He told himself this wouldn't happen again, but the world never forgets.

He catches up with the rat as men to his right are gunned down in their blind desperation.

The rooster and the rat exchange a look, one made of equal parts recognition and reluctant trust, before moving into action.

A nightstick cracks his skull just as he passes through the first door.

REW

He jabs one guard in the stomach before cutting the throat of the next. He turns to find the rat finishing off another two. Both nod and turn towards the pair of offices before them.

Shotguns behind the glass. Orange writhing on the ground. The rooster slips around the corner, prompting a spray of buckshot that narrowly misses his retreating form as he slips back into cover. The guards abandon their secure position and pursue him, only to be cut down as they enter his sight.

He missed one. Lead pellets turn his head into a cloud of red.

REW

The rooster and the rat shared a strange sense of teamwork. The rooster baits the gunmen and both men take them down. They pick up the fallen shotguns and clear out the showers by blasting away everything in sight.

None of this would solve anything. The blood on his hands and the feverish tempo in his mind were evidence enough of that. This felt different, though. He no longer relished in the kill or embraced the adrenaline. They were obstacles, pure and simple. The waves that push against him as he swims out to a cerulean sea.

The rooster and the rat switch into guard uniforms. The orange men were now the enemy.

The two men proceeded to the south wing, which was painted in brilliant shades of red and orange.

One of the bulls spotted them through a window, and immediately went careening out of his cell. The rooster was tackled and pummeled into a red paste before the rat could react.

REW

A bull sped around the corner, but found himself with a glass shank lodged in his throat. Red fluid gushed out of the wound as he struggled with it, only for him to go limp as his strength ebbed away. His other comrades fell just as easily, armed with only glass and nightsticks. Each cell was flanked with glass, making most of the enemies easy to eliminate once the rooster got his hands on a magnum. The rat took on the bulls, smashing his pipe into their heads as they charged him.

The rooster's head was clear through it all, a far cry from the blind cacophony he had become so used to the previous year. His questions were numerous after seeing the news from his cell, but they did not matter now. He needed to return to Miami. He needed to cleanse it of his essence.

The cafeteria was occupied by the orange men. The rooster turns left to enter one of the main rooms. He throws his empty magnum to knock one down.

A snake smashes his meaty fist into the rooster's head, painting the floor in red.

REW

He entered the main room on his right, but ducked back through the doorway. The shotgun-wielding man followed him, only to fall as the rooster and the rat pummel him.

The shotgun of the rooster and the pipe of the rat was more than enough. The bulls were intercepted by the rat while the gunmen and the snakes fell to the rooster. They loop back to the entrance, where SWAT officers had begun to secure the area. One ushered them into a van.

The rooster locks eyes with the rat. The rat looks back down, knowing what lays in those eyes.

Confusion. Rage. Acceptance. It was natural for one who had lost someone of importance.

Nothing he could have said would have alleviated the tension. He was under orders, and his mother was vulnerable. If she could barely stand, what hope did she have against the men on the phone?

The rooster turned his gaze downward. Old blood, spilt a lifetime ago. Revenge was simply too petty to consider.

The radiant sun set as the van drove on, spilling brilliant orange light on to the tainted soil.


	2. Down Under

**23:47  
****October 31st, 1991**

He sat, quietly, as he considered the children before him.

Well, that wasn't fair. It was obvious that they weren't _children_, but they seemed that way in his eyes. Four people, all in their masks, having a casual discussion over their drinks.

Four of him, staring back at him with the rooster's eyes, damning him for his silence.

He cradled the beer he had somehow gotten. It was all so far away, a fog at the edge of his vision, yet the four in front of him were perfectly clear. They were an echo of his ordeal, a sharp reflection of the past he had left, simple creatures about to enter a cage of flesh and metal.

His eyes drifted to their table, one smeared with pink paint in a bastardization of _their_ symbol. Another whine pierced his mind.

50 Blessings. A harmonious tune. An unbearable curse. The puppeteers, the masqueraders, the _villains_ that played people like fiddles for a blind man's dream. The masks, the calls, the _questions_, the _blood_, the _fear._ It was everywhere, in every corner. Protests on the streets, mobsters in their palaces. The country was heating up, and the men in the shadows kept stoking the fire.

Something was woefully familiar about it all.

He sighed, settling into his chair. No point in dwelling on it now. He was _close,_ unbearably so, but now was not the time.

_You've got fans. Strange, isn't it? You tried to end it all but it never really stopped._

_That is, unless you tie up some loose ends._

He continued his baleful stare, sipping from the beer in hopes that it would quiet down his manic thoughts. People saw the stories on the news and made their assumptions. Most said 'monster', which might as well have been the truth. These four, though, they weren't the same. They imitated the pawns of the flag-bearers, but served as a mere reflection.

The zebra. The tiger. The swans. The bear.

They were moving towards the exit, their purpose unmistakeable.

He waited just a moment so the pounding in his head sorted itself out. He moved through the exit in the front of the bar and got into his car.

Back into the neon abyss.

**Act 1**

**INVESTIGATIONS**

**2nd Scene - Down Under**

The abandoned apartment complex was packed with thugs on its lower floors. They preferred standing around over actively patrolling and setting up barricades like the Mafiya, which made them easier prey for the masked reapers that had invaded the building.

Corey entered from the back of the ground floor, through a window, tackling a thug with a knife on her way in. She grabbed the knife and went to cut the man's throat.

Several bullets punched through the window next to her and riddled her side.

REW

She rolled to the side as bullets punched through the window next to her. Footsteps hammered the moldy floorboards, a moment of warning before a foot slammed the door open.

The thug that entered found himself cut to ribbons as Corey swiped her katana through his body. She proceeded to sprint through the doorway and cut down two more thugs that were armed with baseball bats before opening the door that led back to the main lobby.

Tony, Alex, Ash, and Mark, all slightly bloody from clearing out the other rooms, met up with her in front of the main staircase.

"Alright," Tony directed, "Corey, you take on the second and third floors. I'll take the fourth and fifth. Alex, Ash, take the sixth and seventh." The group responded with nods. Mark raised his hand.

"What do I do?" Mark asked, visibly shaking in anticipation.

"Mark, you go back and watch the van." Tony responded. Mark slumped over in dejection.

"Awwwwwww. Why do I have to?"

"Someone's gotta do it," Ash said, giving Mark a pat on the shoulder. "It would suck if that thing got swiped while we were cleaning house."

Mark gave a bit of a groan as he lumbered back to the van. Corey felt a slight twinge of sympathy, but turned towards the stairs without saying anything.

After climbing a flight, she opened the first door out to the second floor.

She was greeted by a spray of shotgun pellets to her chest.

REW

She unsheathed her katana and dove through the door, rolling into a gangster and knocking him down. She rose to her feet and chopped the man's head in two before picking up the shotgun he was carrying.

She busted into the kitchen and blasted away a thug, spraying his innards all over the refrigerator and alerting the entire floor. All of the other thugs began storming the room behind her, only to be met with the same grisly end as she blindly fired shell after shell.

After checking the other rooms to make sure she had gotten the rest of them, she advanced another flight.

She took out a guy that was leaning on the railing and took his SMG. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

This was good. They were doing something good.

Her stomach didn't agree, apparently, because looking at the blood pooling around her made it twinge slightly. The redness pooling around her seemed to swallow up her feet, joining in with the color-soaked mist around her as _everything seems to melt together and the frantic beat in your head doesn't help and this isn't going to solve everything and you just wanted to do this for the kicks, didn't you-_

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. No time for freaking out now. She rushed into the washroom to her left and gunned down the three men there.

The rest of their crew charged into the room as she picked up another SMG. She fell as a shower of gunfire tore her apart.

REW

Duck and roll. Spray them down. She bounded off of a nearby table as they fired again and unsheathed her katana in mid-air.

The remaining three fired at her until they ran out of ammo, then fell as Corey landed before them and proceeded to cut them down.

She wasn't aware of how thickly her mind was pumping until the silence settled on to the building. It was… unnerving, how serene it seemed once she took in the bodies on the floor and the blood on the walls.

The tell-tale staccato of gunshots came from outside the building, interrupting her musing.

Mark was out there.

Corey shot down the stairs to see what happened, only to see Mark slumped against the van. There was no blood, but his brown hair was splayed all over his face and a sizable dent was visible on the side of the van. She knelt beside him as Tony sprinted across the ground floor and joined her.

"What the _fuck_ happened?" Tony shouted, his distress clear in his voice.

"… rooster. Took… mask." Mark groaned. His eyes blinked heavily and his words seemed strained.

"Is he gonna be okay?" Alex asked as she exited the building with Ash.

"He'll be fine. Just get him in the van."

Tony and Alex, still slick with blood, heaved Mark into the van just as sirens sounded down the street. Mark slumped in his chair as unconsciousness took over.

—

"_The current state of the Russo-American coalition remains strained as the Russian president addresses the mounting violence against Russian citizens in America. Things are no better on the international scale, for several other countries have demanded a statement from Russia regarding their open use of nuclear weaponry and whether they will expand just as aggressively into neighboring nations…"_

The TV went ignored as Tony propped Mark up on a chair and peeled off his own mask. Corey, Alex, and Ash did the same and sat down in a loose perimeter around the big guy.

After about an hour, Mark blinked himself awake. He immediately grasped his aching head with both hands.

"What… happened?" he managed to grind out between his teeth. Tony stood up, fury clear in his eyes.

"You _fucked up,_ that's what happened! We cleared out a fucking building full of assholes and then came back to find you passed out at the van!" Tony yelled, ignoring the way Mark twitched under his glare.

"Hey, stop yelling at me! I don't-"

"Who the _fuck_ even found you? No one left the goddamn building, for fuck's sake!"

"It was someone else, I don't know! He must have followed us!"

"WHO THE HELL COULD HAVE-"

"Tony! Tony, _calm the fuck down_, Jesus." Alex had stepped up and pulled Tony away from Mark so that he wasn't screaming into the poor guy's face. "Look, Mark said someone might've followed us. I'd worry more about that than yelling at Mark."

"There _were_ a lot of people at the bar…" Ash suggested, shifting slightly in his chair. Corey ran a hand through her long black hair. Who was there? There were the people at the bar, the ones that were dancing by the jukebox…

Her eyes widened. _Him._ There was one guy that watched them the whole time, but she thought he was just drunk or high.

"…Hey, Alex, you remember that guy that was watching us?" she asked in her usual subdued tone. Alex took on a contemplative look for a moment before looking up in realization.

"Yeah, I remember him! The blond guy that was staring at us the whole time, that _has_ to be the guy that followed us." Alex turned to Mark. "Mark, did you see an average-looking guy with blond hair before he knocked you out?"

"No, he.. he was wearing a mask. A chicken, I think." Silence followed his response.

Questions filled Corey's head. How could there be another masked person? Why did they attack Mark? Why did they settle for knocking him out and taking his mask? Why even _bother_ taking his mask?

It made no sense. None of it did.


	3. Awakening

**16:39  
****December 28th, 1991**

Ruins.

All that stood around the man in the jacket were broken walls and debris, the sordid corpse of an apartment of some sort. The ceiling was missing, and the sky was glowing bright orange. Something bright shined off in the distance, rivaling the sunset in its glare. Shadows stretched out to him from the shattered wall before him. Through the missing pieces in the walls, he could see torn buildings and scorched earth.

In front of him sat a skeleton, limply lying on a bunk that seemed somewhat out of place.

He stood up and brought a hand to his face, only to feel rubber. He attempted to tug it off, but it refused to come off. He turned around to find an open doorway.

No other way out, he supposed.

He hesitated, however, when he saw the blood on the frame of the doorway. A feeling of intense apprehension gripped him for a moment, but he shook it off and kept going. He descended the flight of stairs the doorway led to and opened the door a floor down.

**3rd Scene - Awakening**

He was met by an audience of owls in luminescent suits, all turning their heads to gaze at him with silent accusations.

Silence reigned for a moment before all of the owls revealed a variety of weapons and the room burst into action.

The jacketed man knocked one down and grabbed his pipe before turning to face the rest. All of them charged him at once, and he gave a wide swing to open up space.

They all crumbled to dust as his weapon passed through them. He turned around and finished off the one he had taken down by pounding his head. He, too, disintegrated in the same way. The man in the jacket shook his head.

Visions and confusion were hounding him again in his waking dreams.

He bashed down a door, which led straight into a living room that was peppered with shattered walls. Two owls rushed him from opposite sides. He met one halfway, intercepting him with a crushing blow to the head. As the first owl fell to dust, the jacketed man turned around to find the second swinging for his head. He ducked under and slammed is pipe into the owl's back.

He quickly turned around a corner only to find an owl unloading a spray of buckshot into his face.

REW

He ducked back into cover as buckshot shattered the wood of the floor behind him. He swung back around the partial wall in a small loop so that he could slip behind the owl and smash his head from behind. He tossed away his pipe in favor of the shotgun.

This was wrong. All wrong. Wrong wrong wrong _wrong wrong_. His head screamed at him, louder with each fallen foe, rapidly becoming a cacophony of fear and panic. He ignored it and kept going.

His entrance into the next room was greeted with an owl leveling a Skorpion SMG at his forehead. The jacketed man dashed to the right to avoid the initial spray and blew off the owl's head with his shotgun. Suddenly, owls were streaming in from all directions. Two disappeared when they were caught in the jacketed man's first blast. One more to the second. The jacketed man kept firing into the mass until a fatal _click_ sounded out his lack of ammo.

One owl was left. A pistol was aimed at the man in the jacket.

An empty shotgun flew through the air, catching the owl's head. The man in the jacket pounced onto him and began smashing his head into the floor. Eventually, the owl's head gave in and broke apart into dust.

The man in the jacket couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He stumbled his way across the room, eventually falling to the floor halfway there.

In what seemed to be an instant, the building was no longer there. He was lying on a soft surface in the midst of a sandstorm.

He fought to get off of his back. Everything in his body seemed to hate him, struggling against his will with all of its force. He got to a kneeling position. He looked around, but only found a swirling mass of tan and brown.

A man approached him from the storm, gradually becoming more visible as he walked. It was a figure that mirrored his own appearance in dress but wore the head of a rooster. Condemning eyes met his as the beak moved in a way that mirrored human speech.

_You've come. Despite everything, you've come. Look at me. Do you even recognize me? Of course you do. Why? What is there to gain? This is _wrong_. This isn't how it should be. All you have done and all you ever will do is confuse the situation. Is that what you're here for? Answers?_

The man remained quiet as the rooster spoke. He pushed his way onto his feet.

The storm kicked up with each word the rooster said.

_I have no answers for you. Only questions. _

_Do you really want to be here?_

_Are you really going to change anything?_

_Did you come back just to keep hurting people?_

The man in the jacket feel down to all fours. The storm had become punishingly harsh.

_Everything you do now is entirely your fault. No revenge. No masters. This is something new and dangerous, and it is all because of you. Everything about this is _wrong_._

_You decided to make your own decisions. Now all that's left is to see the consequences._


	4. Homicide

_What is this?_

—_-_

**19:41  
****October 25th, 1991**

Detective Manuel Pardo sat and stared at the mug in front of him while thoughts swum around in his head.

"_We're beginning to draw similarities to some of the brutal killings of the Masked Maniac…"_

He shouldn't have cared. Really. It was just another dumb news story about those mass murders from a year ago. It didn't matter. He was a cop. He should focus on _now_, like those 'Miami Mutilator' killings. The thrill in his stomach was just anxiety from the case.

The case that was going nowhere.

He grit his teeth as his hand tightened around the mug. This was _the_ case for him and he wasn't getting anywhere. No weapon on the scene _-leave the gun behind when it__'__s time-_, no fingerprints _-wear gloves when you do it-_, just cryptic messages on notecards _-something you can__'__t control_.

Manny rubbed his face. It was getting late, and that was when the _scum_ started to walk the streets. Now was the time for him to focus and get out there. Show the filth out there that Manny Motherfucking Pardo was on the clock. He walked out of the diner with his coat on his back and started up his car.

—-

Miami was a filthy city. It was all neon and smoke, a cesspit of fools who lived for thrills and sensations. Around every corner, there was another drug deal or another prostitute. Anything a man needed to lose himself was right at everyone's fingertips. The whole damn city was caught in a haze, an orgy of madness and pleasure that would last until the end of days.

The radio in Manny's car barked. _"__Attention all units, we have an armed robbery reported on a department store on Northeast 8th Avenue. Multiple armed individuals sighted__…"_

Manny grinned to himself, a savage expression filled with violent glee.

—-

**4th Scene - Homicide**

Manny's car screeched to a halt before the department store. He strolled out of the car and tossed his coat into the driver's seat, leaving him in a kevlar vest. He was prepared to stride through the entrance before he hesitated.

Was he forgetting something?

_-shotgun in the trunk-_

He lifted the trunk door and pulled a shotgun out. 6 shells wouldn't take out the world, but they would last him until he found something else. He strode through the entrance and fired a shell into the ceiling.

"Alright," he yelled, "all of you better get your asses on the floor or you're under-"

A bullet drilled through his head, leaving him with blood and brains leaking out all over the tiled floor.

REW

He didn't bother with the arrest. Thugs like these guys, they weren't worth a cell. He kicked down the door to the bathroom, knocking one down. The fallen thug's friend scrambled for a pistol, but ended up with a chestful of buckshot. Manny used the grip of the shotgun to bash in the other thug's skull. Footsteps thudded on tiles. Manny took on the group of frenzied thugs with fervor. One shot sent two thugs reeling back, one of them missing most of his intestines. The second blew the head off of a thug who was trying to line up a shot with his pistol.

Manny stepped out of the blood-coated bathroom to find the last thug on the floor, tears streaming down his face as he scrambled backwards.

"G-Go away, man! I-I don't wanna die!" he cried as his back hit a counter. Manny stalked forward, shotgun gripped tightly in one hand.

"Humph," Manny grunted. "Trash like you doesn't belong out there." The frightened man before the detective pressed himself against the counter, a warm stain present between his legs.

"P-please! I'll do anything! Just take my money! O-or arrest me! I don't care!" the scared man, begged as warm tears splashed across his face. Manny lifted his shotgun and placed the end of the barrel in the man's mouth. His finger tensed on the trigger.

"I ain't that kind of cop."

—-

Manny idly wiped the brain matter off of his shotgun's barrel as the elevator descended into the warehouse below the department store. He was down to two shells, which meant that he was going to have to pick up a weapon at some point.

-_knife does just as well-_

He paced around the clunky elevator as it shuddered and groaned its way down the shaft. The case he was working on poked around in his mind.

_-leave the gun in the trunk-_

The elevator finally hit the bottom floor with a cheerful _ding!_

Manny stepped out and rounded the corner, blasting a thug with his shotgun. As yelling and footsteps emerged from the rooms beside him, he kicked down the door to his right. One man, holding an SMG, found a large hole blown through his torso. Manny took aim at the other.

_Click! _Empty.

A baseball bat smashed into his head until his skull split and precious fluid sprayed out onto the hardwood floor.

REW

Manny kicked the door down and blasted away a thug holding an SMG before tossing his empty shotgun at the one armed with a baseball bat. The second thug fell after the gun bounced off of his head, but rolled to the side to avoid the foot that was hurtling towards his head. He looked up just before the blonde cop used his bat to smash his head open.

Manny picked up the SMG from the floor just in time to spray down two thugs that had barged through the door across the hall. Manny stepped over the bodies and proceeded to the main area of the warehouse.

Just past the door, a thug patrolling the shelves took three bullets to the back. Manny turned and peppered the thug that turned the corner to investigate the gunshots. He discarded his mostly-empty SMG and picked up a crowbar off of a crate.

_-murderer-_

This was what he lived for. He grinned as he found and cornered the last thug in the warehouse. To Manny, these men were an infestation. Pests and trash that clung to Miami like maggots on a corpse. Manny, however, was the exterminator. The one everyone went to when they needed the scum out of the picture. It was a gruesome job.

Manny raised the crowbar over his head before swinging it back down on to the last thug's head, driving the forked end through the man's thug's head cracked open, a distinct fissure widening as one skull became two halves. Blood, brain matter, and skull fragments sprayed everywhere, coating Manny in a generous layer of crimson that covered most of what his previous kills had missed.

Yes, Manny's job was a gruesome one. But he thrilled in it. He was a crusader, a templar in a city tainted by sin. This was his purpose. All will soon be well.

_-no hero-_

He tossed the crowbar aside as he marched his way out of the warehouse.

—-

The apartment was dingy, the sort of dingy that Miami's criminal element clung to like moths to a flame. It was the sort of apartment where shady business and illegal affairs happened all of the time, but no one bothered to report it because that was just how Miami was. Take one criminal down, five more are waiting around the corner to take his place.

There's little surprise in finding a murder victim in an apartment like that.

"Another murder case, huh?" Manny drawled, stepping up to the mangled body.

"Yeah," one of the examiners said, pulling his cap low over his eyes. "Looks like you've got a serial killer on your hands, Pardo. Same MO as the guy we found last week, message and all."

_-I'm innocent, they forced me to do it!'-_

"-as if we haven't heard _that_ one before."

"This guy must be some psycho, huh? Creeps me out. Guess it'll make the press happy, though…"

_-they'll see it all. Everywhere. Everyone.-_

"…Goddamned vultures."

"With all the murders in this city I doubt they'll even care. Seems they need buckets of blood before they even raise an eyebrow."

_-shock value. More murders. More intrigue.-_

"God," the examiner said, something heavy lacing his breath, "this city sure makes your skin thick, huh?"

"I was born with thick skin. Have you found any clues?"

"Not really. Slit throat, no murder weapon. No fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing. Just like last time. I'll let you know if something comes up."

"You do that! I'll head down to the station and get started on the paperwork."

"Hang on, Pardo." The examiner stepped aside so he was more or less in Manny's way.

"What? Found something?"

"The other guys have been talking about you at the station. They're nervous."

"Let them talk. I have a job to do, gossip ain't gonna-"

"Sir, you now what I'm talking about. They keep finding you covered in blood after gunshot reports. It's bad enough that more murders than we can handle-"

"Johnson," Manny growled as a shadow came over his expression, "are you telling me how to do my job?" The examiner, Johnson, backed up slightly.

"No, sir, of course not. It's just… you make a lot of people nervous. They've been saying that when they find you after you respond to a crime it's like…"

"Like _what?__"_

"They say you look like some of the masked psychos from '89."

It wasn't an accusation, but the air hung heavily between the two men following Johnson's statement. Slowly, without saying anything, Manny left the apartment with his coat in hand.

"Goodnight, sir," Johnson called. Manny didn't respond.


End file.
